


Gorgeous Bastards

by shaenie



Category: LOTR RPS
Genre: Cosplay, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-28
Updated: 2003-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bloody gorgeous, every one of them.  Impossibly, unfairly gorgeous.  How was she supposed to work?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gorgeous Bastards

**Author's Note:**

> no, not really. Guess not. Run along.

She had ten minutes. Ten minutes until they came looking for her to drag her back on set. That didn't worry her ... at present, she was sure it wouldn't take her more than five. She ducked into her trailer quickly, already gathering up her long Eowyn skirts.

There were just too many gorgeous men around here, that was the real problem. Gorgeous men, and gorgeous boys (as Elijah really wasn't much more than a boy, regardless of the fact that he was a gorgeous one), and gorgeous elves, and gorgeous women, too, for that matter. Miranda had never been on a set like this, a set where practically everyone was physically desirable, and it had left her in a very sad state.

She didn't like to think of herself as particularly hormonal, but the last few days had been full of that gentle tugging at her lower belly that indicated interest, indicated chemistry, and it didn't seem to matter where she looked. Her cheeks burned a little as she lay back on the cool leather of the couch, and she ignored them. It was less embarrassment and more naughtiness anyway. Maybe a little embarrassment. Oh, fuck embarrassment!

Gorgeous men. Too many gorgeous men and too little relief from gorgeousness. _And Cate, of course, and Liv, and how funny is it that you can't help but notice smooth skin and slim curves right alongside square, stubbly jaws and muscular forearms._ "Shut up," she said out loud, said to her own mind, and then laughed a little. It was all a matter of distraction, she was distracted, and she just needed to ... get it out of her system. Yeah. Just ... release a little tension.

She sighed a little ( _I can't believe I'm going to do this_ ), and stretched out, sliding a leg off the couch to rest her foot on the floor, giving herself a little room to work. ( _Work, right work, I'm at work!_ ) "Shut up," she said again, and closed her eyes as she slid a hand down her belly and through silk-soft curls to find the place that had been plaguing her all morning with it's insistent, demanding throb. She let out a little hiss of contentment, and slid her other leg up, slung it over the low back of the couch. Room to work. Room to play. She pressed gently, and 'mmmed' in satisfaction as she found the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect amount of movement.

This wouldn't take long. Just ... needed to relax, needed to not think about dragging one of them off behind any clump of handy shrubbery every time some hapless, gorgeous bastard happened across her path. Bloody gorgeous, every one of them. Impossibly, unfairly gorgeous. How was she supposed to work?

She dragged her free hand up her ribs and across a breast, still trapped ( _dammit_ ) under her dress, but it was too hard to get off, she'd need help with the fastenings, she'd just have to content herself with grazing her fingertips across the nipple, feeling it contract and harden and send tingling delight downward, adding to what she was kindling already with her fingers.

Stupid, smelly, oblivious, and utterly fucking gorgeous bastards.

Especially ... Viggo.

Viggo with his hard, capable hands and his glittering eyes, decked out as Aragorn with a tight, determined set to lips and jaw. Viggo's thighs encased in tight leather, rigid and tense around the body of his horse. Viggo in cut off shorts at the beach, cut off shorts with white strings dangling from the unevenly shorn legs, brushing against tanned and muscled thighs, cut off shorts and nothing else, the obscene stretch of his broad shoulders in the sunlight, shoulder blades moving visibly, beautifully under the skin of his back. Viggo mouth, grinning bashfully at her over sickeningly sweet drinks with little umbrellas and bits of fruit, Viggo's lips shining with sticky sweet alcohol, moving against her lips, brushing across her nipples light, and teasing ... yes ... Viggo at the beach ...

And Dominic at the beach. Yes. Dominic at the beach, wetsuit clinging to him like something that was in love with the curves and lines of his body, seawater dripping from the tips of bleached out spikes and rolling in shimmering, sparkling lover's droplets down his neck. Dominic's laughing eyes, which she could sometimes hardly pull her eyes away from - and she knew she wasn't the only one - and Dominic's square, strong hands, which were rough with work but not heavy with callouses, tickling caresses on her thighs, pushing them apart, lifting, and cradling her lower back, supporting her, Dominic at the beach in that decadent fucking wetsuit, tempting Dominic jogging and laughing out of the water with Elijah ... Elijah.

Elijah in his boxers en route to the bathroom from his bedroom in the small hours of the morning while the party that had started early in the evening lingered on in his living room. Elijah with his sleep-spiked hair and his slim, pale body seeming to suck in the moonlight, drink it in and reflect it back with almost painful radiance. Elijah, only eighteen and with those ridiculous fucking eyes, innocent eyes and pink bow mouth, soft bow mouth, whispering, and the feel of his flat American voice murmuring against the planes of her belly, whispering with his soft lips, warm lips, brushing against the column of her throat, pressing into secret, tender places, just behind her ears, at the top of her spine, and the silky soft bends at the backs of her knees. Elijah's pretty mouth. God, Elijah's pretty mouth and hands, his hands were small and soft, no nails to catch her in tender places, no nails and Orlando teased him mercilessly about that ... Orlando.

Orlando - and really, he was too beautiful and exotic to be allowed, there should be a rule against Orlando, for everyone's protection - with his black button up open and flapping in the wind, his cargoes low (dangerously low, how did those things even stay up?) on his hips, tattoo revealed and hidden in snatches as the wind fluttered his shirt, dark, flat little nipples on a smooth, but nicely rippling chest kept deliberately pale with sun cream to match Legolas' pale face. Dark eyed and bright smiled, Orlando who seemed to have the secrets of sin locked up in the long limbs of his body, Orlando who was new to acting on this scale, yes, but was vibrant and captivating and not new to lots and lots of other things, things involving his hands and his mouth and his cock, and the weight of him atop her would be deceptive, she knew, he looked slim but was all lean muscle and sinewy strength, he would press her down into the mattress and pin her with his sharp angles and smooth skin.

And she was thinking of him when he walked into her trailer, thinking of him with Eowyn's skirts pooled around her belly, while one hand trailed patterns around a nipple, thinking of him with legs splayed open and two fingers pressed and kneading at the urgent point of heat between her thighs. She was thinking of him, and when he walked in, she shuddered and pressed harder, and she was almost sure she had conjured him there, imagined him, except that she would have imagined him as Orlando, with his naughty smiling lips and his tousled mohawk, not as Legolas with his hair all shimmering gold and his eyes masked and calm behind blue contact lenses. She would have imagined him slowly stalking toward her with cat-grace and smoldering dark eyes, tension singing in his limbs from desire, not standing loose and relaxed, not face shuttered and still with Legolas' ageless calm, not motionless and silent and observing. She would have imagined him moving and urgent, not quiet and poised, because Orlando was not still, was nearly never still, was nearly never quiet.

But he was now, he watched, unmoving, and she didn't stop or blush (it was past the point where she could have done either), just looked at him and felt the moving, vibrant Orlando in her mind changing, stilling, felt him turn steady and deliberate with skill and long years of experience. The Orlando ( _Legolas_ ) there now would open her with expert patience, fingers deft and knowing, would slide slim fingers inside her with gentle competence, and regard her with calm, attentive ( _blue_ ) eyes while he watched her pleasure. She bit at her lip and her hips rose up. Orlando's ( _Legolas'_ ) serene expression and focused eyes did not calm her, she could feel them on her body like heated silk, her nipples tightened further, shockingly quickly, and she gasped open mouthed. His ( _blue_ ) eyes slid lightly down the length of her body, lingered on pale thighs, open and vulnerable, and the skin there prickled and burned in the wake of his gaze. She murmured without sense, only sound, licked at lips her panting breaths had dried, and the hand at her breast captured a trapped nipple and squeezed roughly, pushing breath from her lungs at the hotquick jolt of painful pleasure.

This Orlando ( _Legolas_ ) would use lips and tongue and teeth as gentle weapons, light, sharp bites that he would soothe with his tongue, bites on her neck and her shoulders, bites on the slopes of her breasts, bites much hotter and wetter than her fingers on her nipples, and he would not stop, he would travel down the length of her body, his teeth would mark her and his tongue would be hot, the air would sting cool against the places his mouth had left, and he would watch her with those cool blue eyes as he nipped at her thighs. Yes, he would, yes ...

The Orlando ( _Legolas_ ), the actual one that did not live in her mind, the one standing there and watching, shifted slightly, and her eyes were pinned to him, pinned and watching back, watching as his slender fingers went to the laces of his breeches and loosened them with quick, familiar grace. She let out a little moaning exhalation when the elegant length of him was released, hard and dusky with desire, not pale like his face, but deeply flushed and needful, and she murmured wordless encouragement as he caught his cock firmly in his calloused, archer's hand. He moved with slow, patient strokes, thorough and unhurried, and his face stayed calm, stayed gentle and quiet, and his eyes watched her hand move between her legs. She shifted, opened more, let him see, and barely caught the slight tightening of his fist on his sex, the slight hitch of his breath in his chest.

If he were to slide into her, this Orlando ( _Legolas_ ), his weight would feel like next to nothing, he would be too courteous, too giving to press upon her fully, and he would push perfectly inside, he would exert force enough to make her moan, but never enough to truly hurt, he would feel like smooth, impossible silk filling her up, filling her perfectly in all the right places, and he would know to slide his thumb against the heated nub of flesh above their joining, would know just how to exert perfect, patient force and let her move against it as she liked, and he would watch her with wide open ( _unreal blue_ ) eyes and take her pleasure like it was a gift, take it like it was sacred, and offer it back to her melded and twisted with his own. She would scream when she came and he wouldn't make a sound.

She could hear herself gasping softly, and she could barely hear him breathing ("You don't hear an elf breathing," his alter ego had said to her once, "unless the elf wants you to."), and his hand was moving faster, but there was nothing frantic about it, it was merely quick and purposeful, his wrist flexing and constant, forearm writhing with muscle beneath the skin, but with barely an indication of exertion on his face, while she was burning and making needy sounds and her hand _was_ frantic, _was_ urgent, and her cheeks were warmly flushed and her nipples felt sharp enough to slice their way free of the soft material that still encased them, and he inhaled deeply, and there was a gentle tremor in his thighs, his lips had parted very slightly, and she was too hot, too hot, and he was too beautiful, and the hot clench, the liquid friction of orgasm speared into her like his cock _wouldcouldmight_ , it closed over her like steam trapped in a shower, close and engulfing and almost scalding, and her hips rose and her hand pressed, and she whispered: "Legolas!" and watched, enthralled, as his head tipped back a fraction, as his eyes drifted closed in his perfect, peaceful face, and his hips swayed forward gently, a shadow of a movement, as he came with his hand still moving with careful, controlled force.

She was limp and hot and exhausted, her breath felt like it was being jerked from her chest, and she relaxed back and pressed her cheek to the back of the couch, pressed her hot face against the coolness where her body had not warmed it.

"They want you on set, Eowyn," he said, smooth and calm, Legolas' voice, and when she looked it was Legolas' face that regarded her, too, calm and unembarrassed. She just looked, waited, waited for embarrassment to flood her cheeks with bright color. It did not come. He was carefully lacing his trousers, and she watched him finish that and wash his hands in her small sink. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked. Calm. Courteous.

"Please, that would be lovely," she replied, and it felt natural and not at all as bizarrely impossible as she had expected.

He rummaged in the tiny refrigerator (and that was the weirdest thing that had happened, an elf rummaging in her icebox) while she cleaned herself up. They would have to touch up her makeup, no way around that, but the rest was good. It was good.

He handed her a bottle of chilled water, and she gratefully drained half at it at a gulp before offering it to him. He took a polite sip, capped it, and handed it back to her.

He offered her his arm, and she took it.

This Orlando ( _Legolas_ ) would never say a word of this to anyone, she knew. Not even to Miranda.


End file.
